


Park Bench and Cigarettes

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Castiel, M/M, Name Changes, Romance, Self-Harm, Smoking, Social Anxiety, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy's fifteen when he moves to Hell, Kansas, and he's honestly surprised at the lack of brimstone. It's mostly cornfields, actually. </p><p>He loves spending time at the lake because it's his own little private place to commune with nature, until he drops by to find some well-dressed punk sitting on his bench. </p><p>That explains the cigarette butts everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Park Bench and Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a [prompt](http://dustyforgotten.tumblr.com/post/83401495123/naturallyhell-i-want-a-thing-with-crowley-as-a) by naturallyhell on Tumblr: "I want a thing with Crowley as a well dressed punk that eventually manages to get Castiel, the straight laced choir boy, to come out of his shell a bit."
> 
> Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this to be finished so I can upload it as a single chapter?

Jimmy’s fifteen when he moves to Hell, Kansas, and he’s honestly surprised at the lack of brimstone. It’s mostly cornfields, actually.

He spends his summer on a secluded park bench by the lake, reading, bird watching, decompressing. No one walks far enough off the bike path to see him, and the tree branches hang low enough he can’t see the windows to the house across the water. It feels like his own slice of nature: like this portion of the gigantic world belongs to him. It’s the only thing that really does.

Until that day. He splits from the path and walks down to the lake to find someone sitting in his place. He’s got both arms draped over the back slats, and a cigarette in his mouth. He looks more comfortable there— though the bench really isn’t comfortable— than Jimmy looks anywhere. When he turns, his eyebrow quirks in a practiced way. “I didn’t know anyone else came down here.”

His voice is dulcet, but there’s something in how he forms the sounds that may be an accent, or may be something about his voice. He has one of those faces like he could be anywhere from Jimmy’s age to his stepdad’s. The scruff on his jaw doesn’t help any, but the sleeves of his black dress shirt are rolled up, and the thick leather cuff on the man’s wrist isn’t something Jimmy could imagine on a man in his thirties. “Nor did I.”

The man scoots up against the wrought-iron arm of the bench and crosses his legs, one ankle on the other knee. “I don’t mind.”

“I do,” Jimmy retorts.

He smirks, and turns back to the lake. “Too bad. Carved my initials into the bottom of this bench eleven years back. You moved in, what, four months ago?”

“Three,” the soon-to-be-sophomore admits.

“Right,” he says with amusement in a voice that certainly has an accent, “like I said, love, I don’t mind. You’re welcome to join me, if  _ you _ don’t mind the smoke.”

Jimmy huffs, but takes him up on the offer.

“Name’s Crowley,” he says, tapping off ash. From the UK— has to be, when he shapes vowels like that.

“Is that a first or a last name?”

“It’s my name.”

He doesn’t have it in him to press. “Jimmy Novak. Nobody calls me anything.”

“Wait ‘til the school year starts. Then you can be ignored in a crowded hallway.” He speaks from recent memory. Jimmy’s estimation shifts down a few years, to college-aged. 

“So, nothing new.”

Crowley chuckles, and smiles sidelong. “How old are you, love? Sixteen?”

“Fifteen,” he corrects. Jimmy hit puberty early; his voice is lower than Crowley’s. He wants to turn the question around on the asker, but he doesn’t have the courage at the moment. “Sophomore.”

“Fifteen,” Crowley says. “Fif _ teen _ ,” he reconsiders, flicking his spent cigarette into the dirt and grinding it out under the heel of his boot as he stands. “Shame. I’ve got to be going. I’m usually only here at night, but I suppose I’ll see you around, Jimmy.”

He grimaces; he never liked hearing his name. “You too.”

When Crowley’s heel-toe steps are only a beat in Jimmy’s mind, he picks up the cigarette butt, and takes it to the trashcan on the bike path.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

He doesn’t see Crowley again, but he knows he’s there, because he keeps finding cigarette butts. Jimmy doesn’t mind picking them up; it gives him something to do. Weeks go by. He doesn’t look forward to school, because he doesn’t like people, and he doesn’t like staying inside too long, but his first day he finds out he has two classes with an apparent senior, Crowley, so he guesses it’s okay.

He walks into Government, very nearly late after getting lost for a third time today, and panics when he realizes it’s open-seating. That fades when he spots Crowley in the back corner, eyes turned his direction, removing his feet invitingly from the seat in front of him. Jimmy sits, closes his eyes, and waits for Crowley to say something. He has such a pleasant voice.

He doesn’t speak. Not a word.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The cafeteria is packed, but there’s a small patio area with a few plastic picnic tables. Those are never comfortable, and the sun makes them hot by lunchtime, but Jimmy likes the warmth. He has the patio to himself.

The fire door hisses open, and a figure backs out, hands probably full with his lunch. The white dress shirt, dark jeans, Jimmy assumes it’s a teacher, and is already screwing his thermos shut to relocate when he turns.

“Darling, what a surprise,” Crowley greets. His hands are actually quite empty, so why he opened the door like that is lost on the younger. He sits across from him, and pats his breast pocket, then seems to remember something, and fishes instead in his pants pocket.

“Crowley,” he acknowledges, swallowing what’s left of his PB&J. 

He finds what he’s searching for— a pack of cigarettes. He shows it to the sophomore. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He finds that he really, really doesn’t, but for some reason, he says, “Does it matter? You have seniority.”

Crowley pauses, unlit cigarette in his mouth, Zippo in his hand, and raises an eyebrow at the boy across from him. He takes the cigarette between his fingers (never speaks with it in his mouth, it seems; Jimmy likes that) and says, “That mentality is exactly why you’re going to be the newest footpad in Hell.”

“People don’t walk on me,” Jimmy shrugs sadly, “they walk around me. Don’t see me.”

Crowley has an odd way of folding his lower lip over his teeth before wetting it, like he’s thinking, holding eye contact all the while. He lights his cigarette finally, and blows the smoke over his shoulder, even though he’s downwind. “It’s not all you’re led to believe.”

“What, being walked on?”

“Being seen.”

They stare. Jimmy breaks it, for once, when he realizes Crowley isn’t going to grow awkward under his so-called piercing gaze and leave. He focuses on gathering his trash into a pile, and mutters, “You don’t see me.”

“I make a point not to.” Jimmy blinks owlishly, and cocks his head. “You don’t have any friends yet, angel. I’m not the kind you want to be associated with right out the gate.”

“Why?” Ever-curious, Novaks.

“I’m in with a bad crowd,” he elaborates with calculated nonchalance. Then, with a puff, he chuckles. “Hell, I am the bad crowd. Heard of us?”

“Heard of what?”

“The Demons, love.”

“No, I haven’t heard of you.”

“You will. People talk around people like you. See, there isn’t much in Hell but corn, and broken dreams, and talk about a certain farmer and a waitress at the Applebee’s. What are the bored and rebellious teens of the town to do but join a gang led by their, admittedly, charismatic and devilishly handsome king?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Cow-tipping, I suppose.”

Crowley can’t decide if he finds that funny or rude. He exhales over his shoulder, but the wind has shifted, and Jimmy smells a kind of non-menthol he can’t remember the brand of, but he’s found oddly inoffensive since before his stepdad quit smoking. “Have you met the preacher’s daughter yet? Nice girl. You’d like her.”

“I don’t make friends.”

“You’re making friends with me.”

“No,” the sophomore responds adamantly, something he’s very focused on, but not proud of. “I respond when you speak. I don’t start the conversations, I don’t make friends. If anything, you’re making friends with  _ me _ .”

The senior’s face falls, and Jimmy hates himself for being so cynical, speaking so harshly to the only person in the school that talks to him, and he  _ loves _ hearing him talk. He hates a lot of things about himself, most of all that he sits silently as Crowley stubs out a not-quite finished cigarette on the cheap plastic table, and leaves without a word. Novak takes the butt, dusts the ash through the slats of the tabletop, and turns it over in his fingers while he waits for the bell to ring.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jimmy enjoys singing, but he abhors choir class. There’s always someone off-key, and his classmates are so superficially friendly— the kind of people that call him a friend, but don’t recognize his face outside of class. He does, however, like his other elective— Mythology— and no, not just because it’s one of two classes he and Crowley share. Crowley isn’t speaking to him this week, even though he sits on his left. It’s assigned seating (which Jimmy prefers, because it doesn’t encourage social interaction), by surname, alphabetical. He knows Novak is nowhere near Crowley (as their Government teacher called last names), but he doesn’t ask. The mind of a teacher is unknowable.

Most of the class is lecture and note-taking on a subject Jimmy delights in, small reading assignments or art projects. Yet, there is the dreaded partner work. He isn’t obvious about how much he really knows on the subject, preferring to stay quiet, and if his prayers are heard, he ends up the odd number, and works alone. Today, however, there is an absence. 

Which means an even number. 

And partner work. 

He waits through the scrambling of students fighting over friends, the sound of Crowley’s chair shifting as he partners with one of the many people he may leave class with. Jimmy waits for the teacher to pair him with whoever is unlucky enough to be left.

“Well, angel,” says Crowley, and  _ God _ , did he miss that voice, “looks like you’re stuck with me.”

He chances a sidelong glance at awful, wonderful Crowley, and grins down at his notes. “I, uh…” He swallows his smile as Crowley turns their desks together. It’s a project. When it’s done, they won’t speak. “I was thinking Athena, or Dionysus.”

“Dionysus? And I thought you were a choir boy. Tisk tisk, kitten.”

“I just thought  _ you’d _ like Dionysus,” he defends.

“I was thinking Ares. Or, Dionysus.”

“Dionysus it is.” He flips through the textbook for the god of wine and debauchery.

“So. Fond of Athena, are we?” says the senior conversationally. Small talk, to fill the awkwardness of working with someone you aren’t on speaking terms with. He probably only chose Jimmy because he knew he wouldn’t turn it down— just like he’d play along, because he hates confrontation.

“Goddess of war and wisdom, born virgin from Zeus’s skull. What’s not to like?”

“Stealing the title from Ares?”

“Athena was more of a strategist than a patron of violence. Ares had no cults, only offerings that he would spare them from war.”

Crowley laughs, leaning his chair back so the front legs lift. “That’s why I like Ares!”

“Are you sure you aren’t just a hipster?” he says, and immediately he knows how rarely his jokes cause laughter, how everyone thinks him withdrawn and insulting for this exact reason; he didn’t even crack a smile, and it’s too late to do it now, too late to apologize, stop trying to make friends and find safety in the loneliness, add it to his list of failures, it just keeps growing and  _ growing and _ — 

The political perfection of the senior’s smile is gone, halved, his dark eyes narrowed, and a rise in one of his eyebrows. Jimmy holds his eyes, unafraid of eye contact, weirdly unafraid,  _ creepily _ , he’s been told. Crowley leans forward, half across the desk, one hand kept flat on top of Jimmy’s. Jimmy glances at the hand, then back to the eyes. Cocks his head, a little scared. The tobacco clings to Crowley’s clothes, and it just smells like home to Jimmy, back when home had more than two people in it.

His face is intense, but not angry. “Angel, I know what you’re doing, and I don’t think you know what—”

“Fergus,” a harsh inflection on a sweet voice warns.

He blinks, swallows, and draws away. “Jimmy, are you okay?” the teacher asks. He still hasn’t learned her name.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She glances between the two of them, and softens a bit. “Are you  _ sure _ ?”

“Yes, ma’am. Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of defending myself, should the need arise. It hasn’t.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. Fine then.” He wonders briefly if  he sounded rude, but she interrupts his thoughts by asking, “Have you two decided on a deity for the project?”

“Dionysus,” Jimmy responds.

She clucks her tongue. “I’m sorry, Dionysus is taken. What’s your second choice?”

The students eye each other. Jimmy asserts “Ares,” while Crowley volunteers, “Athena.”

They glare. Contemplatively, the older repeats, “Athena.”

Growled, “ _ Ares _ .” Then, to the teacher, “We’re doing Ares.”

She glances to Crowley. “Is that alright with you, Fergus?”

He shrugs, eyes on Jimmy. “Give the boy what he wants.”

Her face softens, frowns like his mother used to people, and people used to frown at him after hearing what happened to his mother. “Ares, then,” she says, and walks off. The senior’s gaze doesn’t break. Jimmy’s beginning to understand why people find it awkward.

He blinks, but doesn’t look away. “So…”

“So.”

“Sooo…” Jimmy says, resting his chin on his elbow, “ _ Fergus? _ ”

Crowley— Fergus— sighs. “I was hoping you didn’t hear that.”

“Fergus Crowley isn’t too bad, but considering you sit next to me, I doubt that’s your real name.”

Pretending to be distracted for the embarrassment, he rolls his eyes away, and slowly says, “Fergus Roderick MacLeod.”

Jimmy smothers his laugh in his hands, and Crowley anxiously waits for it to stop, sinking lower in his seat. “Go on, laugh all you want, but call me Fergus, and I will end you in a great flash of ozone and light. It’ll be spectacular.”

“Ye— _ hahaha _ — ye-yeah?” He chokes down chuckles. “Wh-what about Roderick?”

He pointedly ignores the comment, his face softening. “You know, angel, you’re real cute when you laugh.” 

Jimmy’s puffs dwindle as confusion muddles his expression. Crowley turns his attention to the textbook. “Ares is page twenty-three.”

The younger blinks down at the page he stopped on— Aphrodite.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“How many copies do you need of that announcement?” Jimmy asks.

“About fifty more. It’s only for the freshman classes,” the secretary responds. 

The sophomore sets the copy machine, and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder, glancing out the bay window. Sun’s setting. “Is there anything else you need, Miss?”

The secretary pauses in her typing for a beat, thinking, and then goes directly back to work. “That hoodlum was caught smoking on the grounds again. He’s been waiting on a call from the superintendent since release, and I don’t think it’s coming.”

Jimmy cocks his head. “Why is the superintendent calling him?”

She turns a page, and then continues typing as she speaks. “Contraband, such as the lighter we confiscated, cannot be returned to the student, only a legal guardian. This district’s never needed protocol for emancipated minors, so as it stands, I suppose it’ll sit in the Dean’s desk.” Jimmy leans around the corner, and his jaw drops when he sees a certain Scottish senior in one of the chairs that makes up the Line of Shame to the principal’s office. “Shoo him off, would you, Jimmy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies reflexively, even though he really doesn’t want to. He nods to her in farewell, and rounds the corner, standing before him. He forgets what he was doing, distracted by the way Crowley’s chest rises and falls in sleep. Jimmy flexes his grip on the strap of his bag, and nudges Crowley’s outstretched leg with his foot. He startles awake.

“The super isn’t calling. Go home.”

He leans forward, rubbing one eye at a time. “Bollocks. Figures.” Jimmy nods minutely, crossing his arms and averting his eyes as Crowley rises. He claps him on the shoulder, and Jimmy clenches up from the contact. “See you around, love.” 

He avoids watching him leave by focusing instead on a flower painting on the wall. He thinks it’s lilac, and larkspur. He really should get home to water his garden; he’s getting anxious from all the time indoors.

But, retrieving the school ID card from his wallet and fixing his eyes on the principal’s office door, he supposes he could stand a few more minutes in the empty office.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

For once, Jimmy’s glad when his stepdad passes out drunk, because he has a strict curfew on school nights. It lets him sneak out his window without worrying his guardian will come to check on him.

Crowley’s fiddling with a matchbook, unlit cigarette in mouth, and casts a “Hello, angel” without looking up.

Jimmy claims the seat next to him, and hands him the lighter. It’s a Zippo, tarnished and worn to the point he can’t make out any part of the crest engraved on the side. It smells like old metal, and only vaguely of lighter fluid.

“My uncle’s lighter…” Crowley turns it over in his hands, and lights his cigarette, before depositing it in his pocket. “However did you get your hands on that?”

He shrugs. “Like I said, nobody sees me.”

He starts to look sympathetic, but then the younger smiles, devious, and Crowley smirks. “I’m a terrible influence.”

“You are,” he agrees, “but this was all me.”

The senior lets his head fall back, staring up through the canopy. There’s something to be said about Hell: there’s hardly any light pollution. They can see stars where the leaves don’t cover. “Thank you.”

Jimmy’s surprised to hear it forthcoming, but he doesn’t let it show. “You’re welcome.”

He knows Crowley’s looking at him, but Jimmy just puts his head back, neck supported by the arm stretched over the back of the bench, and stares up at the canopy. He feels the muscles in the forearm work, hears the knuckles crack, and then the limb’s drawing away. The wood isn’t nearly as comfortable on his neck, so he sits up straight, and looks at him.

“You should go home, love.” 

“I should,” he replies, and doesn’t move.

The senior tilts his head, half-rolling his eyes, “Jimmy—”

“Don’t call me Jimmy,” he snaps. Crowley doesn’t call anyone by name— not from what he overhears in class, anyway— just “ _ love _ ” and “ _ darling _ ,” and his diaphragm bears down every time he hears it. Wishes he could get that much air in during choir class.

He raises a brow. “It’s your name.”

“It’s the name my father gave me, and he left before I can remember. It’s not my name it’s a— … an identification.”

“What should I call you, then?”

“What you always call me. What you call everyone— what you don’t call anyone else. Crowley.”

He’s been told he has a rather piercing gaze. It’s never bothered Crowley before, but the way his eyes dart away leads him to believe whatever’s coming out of his mouth next isn’t honest. He hates that. He hates being lied to, because everyone’s always lied to him, ever since his mother and sister were in the accident, and everyone kept telling him they were fine. Jimmy Novak  _ hates _ being lied to, and he’s not going to let Crowley do it.

Just this once, he was glad to find someone who sees him. He wants those looks back.

The senior takes the cigarette between his fingers, and Jimmy grabs it, and presses the ember to his wrist. It sizzles, and he hisses, and lets it fall through his fingers to the dirt below.

Crowley stares dumbfounded— at the burn, at his eyes— mostly the burn. His mouth closes, and lower lids go up, as he returns to the eyes. “How long?”

Jimmy swallows, but doesn’t look up from the burn. All he sees is the grey ash stuck to the fresh injury. He doesn’t respond.

“Angel.” Slowly, he looks up. “How long have you been burning yourself?”

Right. He just showed him. Of course he knows now. Everyone will know. Everyone will know, including his stepdad, who will move them back to the city, and it’ll be back to therapy three times a week with that horrible Naomi who would rather prescribe him than just  _ listen _ .

He has to get home and wash this out, bandage it up, be alone. He stands up.

“Angel—” He’s looking at the burn still. 

“ _ Stop _ . Just stop. You know what you can call me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

He walks away. Crowley watches him go.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Jimmy stops going to the lake. It isn’t private anymore— like a secret leaked and fed to gossip. He takes his lunch out to the patio, sees Crowley leaning on the fence, and heads back in before he turns around. He takes his lunch in the back hallway for the next two weeks.

His stepdad gives him seventy-five dollars to throw a birthday party. He puts it in savings. He’s just glad he remembered.

His French teacher makes the class sing  _ Joyeux Anniversaire _ , and they mumble guesses of his name. He dislikes the correct voices the most.

Jimmy gets a job at the gas station. It happens to be the one where Crowley buys his cigarettes, of course, because there are only two gas stations in town. They don’t make eye contact. Jimmy doesn’t check his ID. Crowley starts to call him angel, and chokes on it, and eyes the band-aid on his wrist, and stops talking. 

A boy two seats behind him one to the left in English 10 always talks during their free time. Holding the highlighter over his open Bible is a formality, a ruse, to make Jimmy look busy. He’d like to be reading it. He has no choice but to listen when they’re this loud. 

“So you know that crazy religious kid?”

“Yeah, he lives like a block down from me. I had my window open, caught him sneaking out at like one am.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Didn’t see where he was headed. It was like, three weeks ago.”

“Do you think he’s in with the Demons?”

“I mean, I don’t think so. What would they want with him?”

“Who knows? But what else would he be doing out that late? I don’t think he’s doing drugs or anything,  _ look _ at him.”

“I don’t know. I’m just gonna leave the whole thing alone. Besides, his dad’s a creep. Ava told me he’s hitting on the librarian.”

One thing that doesn’t help Jimmy’s reputation is the fact that he lets a laugh slip before he clamps a hand over his mouth. He doesn’t think his stepdad even knows where the library is, and the idea of him trying to flirt is… laughable, indeed. The class goes silent. He doesn’t mind it’s in shock of him; it lets him read.

His Government class shuffles seats, landing Crowley across the room from him, two rows ahead. He asks his Myth teacher if he could be moved, and she switches him with an unruly student in the back. He finds himself disliking school considerably more than normal.

His Geometry teacher keeps him after class, and asks if he’s okay. Says he hasn’t been as focused as he usually is. He says he’s fine, and spends the rest of the day wondering if he is.

That night, he sits up in his room when he’s supposed to be asleep, darkness broken only by flicks of his lighter. It’s an old Bic he pulled out of the trash when his stepdad quit smoking almost a year ago— the only one he grabbed, and it’s running low; he really shouldn’t be wasting fluid like this. He has a bit of trouble sparking it again, but keeps it lit this time, and holds the flame up to his forearm. Even in this dim, he can see some of the dozens of other scars he’s melted into his own skin, and though they make him sick, the sight’s never stopped him before.

Before.

He lets the lighter go out and drops it in his drawer. By habit, even though he doesn’t plan on leaving his room tonight, he pulls his sleeve down and buttons the cuff. The desire’s waning, but the anxiety remains, and he thinks he just  _ might _ leave. He’s never liked walls.

Jimmy grabs a pullover from his closet, and doesn’t bother to pull the collar of his shirt through before he opens his window and climbs out.

There’s only one window with a light on this late (however late it is; he didn’t check), and when he approaches, eyes peeking between blinds go wide, and disappear inside. Probably heard him clamber ungracefully through the Novak house’s front hedge. Or, his stepdad’s stupid last name.

“If I catch you watching me again, I’ll tell your parents you get high with Brady.” Feeling satisfied, he turns to go, but stops and adds, “And keep your voice down.” 

He probably wouldn’t have said anything like that on a proper night’s sleep, but he’s glad he did.

He finds the lake exceedingly peaceful this late. There’s no one on the bike path, and all the lights of the houses surrounding it are out, so the only reflections are celestial. He feels like he could relax until his feet just meld into the soil and all the air seeps out of him, like he can stretch his wings. He has to come down here more often.

Too bad he’s alone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“Sounds like guilt to me.”

Jimmy cocks his head, and his stepdad goes on “I mean, I’m just guessing, but that’s how I write guilt. Hey, could you get me a drink?”

He walks to the kitchenette and grabs a pop can from the fridge, instead of the whiskey he knows he meant. Chuck gives him a look,  but drinks it anyway.

“What could Crowley have to be guilty about?”

Chuck shrugs, swirling the coke to listen to it fizz. “Wanting to screw the kid who owns like, twenty Bibles?”

“Seven,” Jimmy corrects.

“ _ Sorry _ , seven,” Chuck huffs, then grimaces, looking at him. “ _ Seven _ ?”

“King James, New International, New Living Translation, Children’s, Greek-”

“You can’t read Greek! … Can you?”

Unwaveringly, “I’ll learn.”

“Yeah, o _ kaaaaaay _ , enough about the Bibles. He’s a high school guy. He’s always thinking about sex, and you… well, you…” He motions to his stepson, who only tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Well, no offense, Jim, but you kinda scream  _ holy virgin _ .”

“No, I don’t speak above this volume.”

Chuck sighs, and puts his hand to his forehead. “I’m just saying, dude’s probably worried he’ll spontaneously combust if he lets his salacious thoughts slip.” He blinks, rubbing his beard. “Salacious fantasies slip. That’s good, I’m gonna use that…” The writer mumbles, turning back to the coffee table and flipping open his laptop.

“Lest one let salacious thoughts slip…” The sophomore volunteers idly.

Chuck Shurley gapes at him. “You’re a genius, Jim.” He turns back to his computer, shaking his head slowly.

“Goodnight, Chuck,” Jimmy says.

“Yeah, ‘night, Jim…” he mumbles, distracted with his work.

The sophomore turns to leave, but stops. He looks back at his stepfather, and puts his hand over the screen, grabbing the alcoholic writer’s attention. “… Yeah?”

He inhales, and pauses before finally saying, “What would you say if I wanted to change my name?”

Chuck scrunches the side of his face, and shrugs. “I didn’t name you. I think Jimmy’s kind of a nerdy name, honestly. I like your middle name better.”

The sophomore tilts his head just slightly, eyes unfocusing. “I concur.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The preacher’s daughter is, in all honesty, surprisingly pleasant. Her name’s Charlie, she’s great with computers, likes comic books and cult classic movies, and edits the school paper. She’s also been following the Demons closely since middle school, and she’s a junior now.

“Abbie Donaldson— they call her Abaddon— is probably the scariest one in them. There’re rumours she started the Colts’ crop fire three years ago, but there’s no way to prove it. She’s been a Demon all four years in high school, and she can’t wait for Crowley to go away to college so she can take over,” Charlie says over lunch.

“College?”

“It’s common knowledge Crowley isn’t sticking around Hell after he graduates. What he’ll do then is anyone’s guess.”

He nods. He doesn’t have much time. “Go on.”

“There’s Marlon Alastair, goes by his last name— he’s the one with a beard, and the forehead wrinkles?”

“He appears thirty years of age at minimum; I understand that reference.”

“Yeah. He got in when it started, but he got held back because he failed Algebra, so he’s only a junior now. He does most of the intimidating Crowley doesn’t do himself, and hates leaving his house. He’s also crazy good at Anatomy. Like, highest grade out of all the classes.”

She takes a long gulp of juice before she goes on. “Meg and Ruby are the ones you should watch out for. Sophomores, and they do all the shoving people in lockers and stealing test answer sheets and stuff. Also most likely to go above what Crowley tells them to just to wreak havoc. One good thing about them is that they’re always together, and they gossip about everything going on in the Demons. Just don’t let them figure out you’re listening in.”

“Understood.” He finishes his apple, and drops the core in his paper bag. “What do you know about Crowley?”

She taps her chin. “For starters, his name’s Fergus.”

“Yes, he told me.”

Charlie blinks at him in shock. “He  _ told  _ you? Wow. I found out when I hacked the school’s recor— er. I mean…”

The sophomore cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t care.”

She lets out a breath. “Okay, good.  I don’t think I could explain that. Crowley was born here, but his mom died of a drug overdose when he was still really little, and since he didn’t have a dad, he got shipped off to live with his grandparents in England. They all moved back here six years ago when his grandmother died, and his grand _ father _ passed a couple years later, I think, but anyway. Back then, the Demons were just a club Lilith ran, they played pranks and had their own lunch table. Crowley and Lilith were…” Charlie bites her lip and and rubs her hands together, trying to think of a word, “sorta-kinda-not really dating, but totally an item, but absolutely no romantic stuff, but definitely sexual stuff, and like— they were freshmen, stuff happened.”

The Novak nods; he understands what freshman year is like.

“Right. So Lilith moved, and everyone thought that was the end of the Demons. And then Crowley stepped up, and in a month they went from super glueing coins to the floor to billboard fires and getting school cancelled. By the end of the year, three teachers and a lunch lady had quit. Over the summer, they wrecked— I mean  _ wrecked—  _ shit. One of my favourites was when they changed a rule in the student handbook to “Don’t fuck with the Demons” and no one noticed until after they were distributed! By sophomore year, Crowley had gone from a nuisance prankster to gang leader. He’s like my idol!”

He nods. If Charlie were to start a campaign for world domination, he would sign on. “I see.”

She tilts her head. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”

“Interested… Precisely.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

They do look very fifties biker gang, when they’re lined up in two neat little rows. Abaddon has a bit of a fifties curl to her hair, and the leather jacket. Meg and Ruby fit the mold, and Crowley would, too, if he were sitting with them. It’s Alastair that sticks out like the dad at Chuck E. Cheese. He’s wearing  _ khakis _ . Even the sophomore in his sweaters and slacks knows better.

Charlie leans into his line of sight. “You sure you want to do this? I mean, I’m ecstatic to have an in with the Demons, but it’s social suicide.”

He blinks at her. “I don’t understand why adolescents are fixated on popularity. It seems tiring to me.”

The redhead grins. “I think it’s the media’s fault.”

With genuine confusion, he replies, “Isn’t the media a byproduct of a desire for popularity?”

She pauses, and scrunches her eyebrows together in thought. The sophomore grabs his lunchbox, and rises from his seat at the lunch table. “Go get ‘em, tiger!” Charlie calls as he approaches the table. He takes Crowley’s empty seat, and opens his lunchbox.

It’s not just the Demons that go quiet, but the rest of the lunchroom with them. 

The first sound that breaks it is a loud crunch of an apple. Meg and Ruby stare at each other in disbelief. Abaddon clears her throat. He chews his apple. “… Who the hell are you?”

He swallows. “Castiel.”

Ruby sighs, “Transfers,” and eats her fries. Meg nods in agreement.

“Well,  _ Castiel _ ,” starts Abaddon condescendingly, so he takes another loud bite to drown her out, “since you’re new, I’ll tell you how it works around here.”

He covers his mouth as he speaks to keep the half-chewed apple out of view. “I’m well acquainted. You’re Abbie Donaldson, Abaddon, unofficial second-in-command of the Demons.”

She chuckles, forced, looking around the lunchroom. “Get out of my sight before I eat you alive.”

Castiel takes another bite of his apple, and takes the time to swallow before he speaks. “I don’t understand how you intend to accomplish that with a hominid mandible.”

She puts her hands flat on the table, and her red-painted nails are as sharp as the corners of her red-painted lips. “Funny boy, huh? Hoping to get in with the big leagues?”

He squints. “I’m being quite literal.”

With a grin, Abaddon stands and wraps a hand around his throat, pulling him up as well. Her nails dig in, and she doesn’t see him seize the pen from the open page of Alastair’s anatomy textbook, and Alastair’s too engrossed with studying to notice. Everyone sees when he stabs the pen into her chest.

Abaddon drops him and backs away; the pen clatters to the tile floor while either Meg or Ruby (Castiel is unsure which is which) puts a hand on Abaddon’s arm while the other stares shocked. Alastair cackles. Castiel frowns at his apple, rolling on the floor, and takes a package of crackers from his lunchbox before he is dragged away by the Dean.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Castiel runs his fingertips over the bandages taped to his neck. It hurts less than his left arm does on a regular basis. The scraping pain every time he turns his head quickly (a common action for him) will take some getting used to, though.

The principal enters, and swiveling his head to look strains the wounds. He winces.

“Well, Jimmy, I talked to your father, and he seems to think you’re an innocent choir boy. I don’t believe that for a minute. No good kid willingly sits down with those hooligans.”

Castiel was going to correct the name, but as the sentence went on, there were too many things wrong with it to bother.

“But all the witnesses say Abbie attacked you first. I can only assume you were threatened and reacted on instinct. Is that true?”

Castiel nods. It’s a lie, but it’s easiest to agree with whatever administrators say.

“I’m giving Abbie ISS on Friday, and sending you home today.” Castiel nods again the Principal sits in the desk chair across from him. “Remember, Jim, I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Don’t mess with the Demons. You’re better off making friends in choir. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” he agrees. He understands. He’s just not going to listen.

“Good. Sign this, and you can wait in the office until your father’s here.”

“I can walk.”

“He’s on his way.”

Castiel know he’s not, because Chuck wouldn’t change out of his robe for anything less than a suspension. He signs his legal name, and when Principal Zachariah hands him his copy, he drops it in the trash can, and walks out the front door. The secretary smiles at him as he goes.

He stops when the chill autumn air hits him, closes his eyes and breathes. Oh, how he missed the outdoors.

“You’ve made your point, love. You have my attention.”

Castiel opens his eyes, and turns his head slowly to keep from stretching the healing skin. “What point?”

“You’re not as fragile as I thought.”

“I’m glad you understand. That wasn’t my point.”

Crowley’s eyebrows go up. “Do tell.”

“I hadn’t intended an altercation.”

The Demon pushes off the wall where he had been lurking, and steps forward. “Then what were you thinking, sitting down with Demons?”

He shrugs lightly, and doesn’t break eye contact. “I had hoped to get up with fleas.”

The older cracks a smile. “You’ll want to focus on Alastair, in that case. He’s the one who plays with dead things.”

“I’ll consider it.” The bell rings; fifth period is over. Sixth is Myth. “We have a test today,” he mentions.

“I do. You’re going home, lucky dog.”

“I’d rather be taking the test.”

An acknowledging quirk of the brow, a change of subject. “We should talk more.”

Castiel finds that amusing, but he chooses not to laugh. “Come to the lake.”

“I do.”

“No, you do not.”

“ _ You  _ don’t,” he insists. 

“Crowley, how would I know whether you were there if I wasn’t?”

He considers, scraping tooth over lip. “… You’ve been going at night.”

“Obviously. I work during the day.”

“I’ve been going during the day…” Crowley admits, and huffs. “Tonight?”

Stiffly, Castiel nods. “Tonight.” He walks off as the late bell sounds. Crowley doesn’t go inside.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Castiel jogs to the lake after his shift, sky still swathed in lavender and carnation. The bench faces west, Crowley draped over it. Castiel’s surprised there’s no smoke curling from his lips, but it’s sensical, he supposes; he goes through a little under a pack a day, so there’s a great portion of his time that does not involve nicotine. It’s odd to see a book cradled in his hand. “… Hamlet?”

“Required reading,” he replies as the younger takes his seat.

“I thought you the type to use sparknotes.”

He folds a page corner, and closes the book. “I  _ do  _ read.”

“I don’t. Not fiction.”

“Hm,” Crowley acknowledges. A breeze flies in off the water, growing colder as the sun goes down. The sophomore scoots a little closer to the human space heater. The space heater sighs. “What do you want from me, kitten?”

Castiel tightens. He sits up, pulls one leg to sit on the slats under him, and takes Crowley’s necktie in his hand. “I want you,” he cinches it up to the throat, and the Demon flinches, “to stop calling me that.”

It’s amazing; the simple slip of his wrist and silk over silk has has the proclaimed King of Hell scared to breathe. He affixes his confidence quick, though. “Would you prefer snookums?”

The slightest tug more, and Crowley’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t push him away. “I would prefer my name. Castiel.”

He puts his hand over Castiel’s and hooks two fingers above the knot, pulls until it comes apart. “So you  _ are _ an angel, then.”

Castiel flips his hand around and holds tight to Crowley’s. “Yes.”

“And I’m the King of Hell.”

“What a match we are,” he muses, eyes darting down to Crowley’s lips.

He picks up immediately, and Castiel is glad he doesn’t have to use any of the other flirtations Charlie has taught him. A great deal of them feel unnatural. “Kit—”

Castiel takes both sides of the tie in his hand and invades Crowley’s breathing space, lines on his face drawn harsh. “Say my  _ name _ .”

A beat passes. The senior reaches up, thumb under Castiel’s chin. “Angel.”

He doesn’t intend it this time, his blue eyes flickering down. Crowley shakes his head, pulling his hand away, though Castiel’s left hand gripping the back of the bench blocks where his arm would usually be. “We shouldn’t.”

A light shrug and smirk from Castiel. “We should.”

He smiles, despite himself. “I shouldn’t.”

Castiel jerks the tie forward, and they’re  _ so _ close now. “I shall.”

Castiel is more forceful than he had meant to be, and Crowley less so than he had hypothesized. A gentle touch, hint of wetness, since Crowley sooner wets his lips than lets them chap. Teeth pinch Castiel’s lower lip when he tries to pull away, and a hand comes to the back of his neck, holds, but doesn’t grab. Castiel swings his leg over and straddles him for an easier angle. He doesn’t know why people call kissing “magical”. The only thing he really enjoys about it is how much Crowley seems to enjoy it.

They part finally, a dim smile on Crowley’s face. Moonlight glints from his dark eyes when they drift open. Castiel runs his hand over the scruff on his face, and the eyes close again. “You taste like smoke.”

He chuffs; one eye open, the other squinted shut. “I can’t imagine why.”

The sophomore takes the lapels of the senior’s coat in his cold hands and warns, “If you try to ignore me again, I will harvest the wild marijuana from the other side of the lake and slip it into your locker before submitting an anonymous tip to the administration.”

His eyebrows go up skeptically, but at Castiel’s cold glare, they fall back down. “You’re really a square peg in a round hole, aren’t you, Castiel?”

His hands skate down the wool collar, and pull hard on the undone tie. Castiel is the one smiling. “Call me angel.”


End file.
